Killing the Beasts

Chapter 5

31 October 2002

Jon's mind drifted back to the previous night, when he had stood on Tom's empty driveway. He still couldn't believe that several months had passed since Tom's Audi had reversed out of the same driveway and he'd chased it through Didsbury. The fact that the little shit had escaped him still caused an angry throbbing in Jon's head. He knew that he shouldn't dwell on his failure, but he had been so close to catching the thief. So close.

He sighed, thinking about the Sunday evening when they'd called in at Tom's office and disturbed the shifty-looking bloke with the thick glasses. Creepy George. He decided to drive back to the office later and see if the man knew what was going on.

A sudden gust whipped raindrops against the incident room's window and Jon blinked at the noise, his reverie broken. It was his least favourite time of year — the remnants of autumn still littered the city and the clean, hard cold of winter hadn't yet set in.

Turning round, he stepped out from behind his desk and said, 'Outside Enquiry Team. Door to door enquiries for the street. Anyone unusual seen entering or leaving the victim's house that morning, any strange cars parked on the road. You know the score. I'll take the neighbour — the one who shares a driveway with the victim's house. She mentioned some stuff to me yesterday, so I'll follow it up.'

He glanced at a notebook before continuing. 'We also need to statement her friends and associates. With the exception of the three other band members, we'll hold off taking fingerprints and DNA swabs, unless forensics come up with something specific. First thing is to interview and eliminate the other three band members. Probable scenario here is that the victim willingly let her killer into the house, so it seems she knew him. All the band members were at her house that evening — in fact they were the last people to see her alive. According to Phil Wainwright, they all left together. What we need to ascertain is this: did any of them return to her house later? Either Phil, her ex, or maybe one of the other two if she had something going on the side with them. One other thing Phil Wainwright mentioned was that Polly had been receiving the occasional call on her mobile which she was being very secretive about.' He turned to the office manager. 'Have we got her phone records yet?'

'Arriving today, Boss.'

It was going to take a while to get used to being called that. 'Right, any thoughts or questions so far?'

There were plenty of frowns from members of the Outside Enquiry Team as everyone looked at their notes. Finally a young officer spoke up. 'Who was she going to go travelling with? A woman in her early twenties — she probably wasn't setting off on her own.'

'Good point. Everyone put that question down on the list. Right, back here for four thirty.'

He shut his notebook so the pages slapped together and everyone jumped to their feet.

Heather Rayne tied back her hair in a loose ponytail and began wiping down the beech worktops in her kitchen. The IT training sessions she ran for Kellogg's in Manchester didn't start until late morning on a Thursday so she liked to use the couple of free hours to give her house a quick clean.

As she opened the microwave up and began scrubbing away at the spatters of dried baked bean sauce on its sides, she considered her next Cancer Relief marathon. It wasn't due for another two months and her training regime was going very well. Now the evenings were darker she had to rely on the treadmills at the gym; but when there weren't any other people waiting for the machine, she could happily notch up twenty kilometres.

Mopping the kitchen floor, a thought suddenly occurred to her. She could use her Thursday mornings to get in a decent road run. But that, she reflected, would mean doing all her cleaning in the evenings. Heather didn't like upsets in her weekly routine. When they had moved the meetings in her local Conservative club to a Thursday it had really irritated her; not least because it meant recording ER and watching it on a Sunday instead.

Now in her bedroom she gathered up the assortment of shoes scattered in the corner. All but her knee-high leather boots went on the rack under the window. The boots were carried over to the wardrobe and placed inside, beneath the black PVC costume hanging there. She wiped a smear of dried saliva from its hem, smiling at the memories of when she had last worn it and looking forward to the next time it would make an appearance.

She glanced at her watch as if the wait shouldn't be a long one, and the chimes of her front door bell rang out.

Opening up, she looked at the suited man standing there. He moved the briefcase to his other hand and said, 'Miss Rayne?'

At Berrybridge Road, Jon parked in the space nearest to number fifteen. Avoiding the puddles of rain dotting the driveway, he noticed the crime scene tape had been repositioned so that the neighbour had full access to her front door. Parked across the driveway with its front bumper pressed up against the tape was a Subaru Impreza.

Jon knocked on the front door and a man with a shaved head and shiny black leather jacket answered. He took one glance at Jon and shouted back into the house, 'Sue, it's for you.'

The man stepped past without a word and Jon could smell his furtiveness. The woman appeared in the doorway, arms folded.

Jon opened with a smile. 'I hope it wasn't too much trouble yesterday.'

'No,' she conceded reluctantly.

'Could I ask you a few questions about your neighbour — Polly Mather?'

'I knew this would happen,' she complained, stepping backwards to let him in.

The layout of the house was the mirror image of Polly's. In the kitchen piles of baby clothes were stacked on the table and an ironing board was set up in the corner. She motioned for him to sit.

Getting out his notebook, Jon looked at a pair of pixie-sized socks. 'How old's little Liam?'

Guessing correctly that his interest was feigned, she answered abruptly. 'Year and a bit. Can we get this done? He's due awake in another half hour. I haven't even started this bastard pile.' She placed a T-shirt on the ironing board, picked up the iron and pressed it with a hiss into the material.

Jon dropped his grin, knowing she would see that as fake too. 'OK, how was Polly as a neighbour?'

'Bloody noisy. Too much music. Late at night, in the mornings — didn't matter when. But I suppose it doesn't, when you're on stuff.'

'Stuff?'

'I don't know. Pills and that, I should think.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Well, look at her for a start. No one arrives home in the early hours and keeps going through 'til morning if they're not.'

'She'd do this on her own?'

'I wish. She'd bring back all sorts. Those band members, clubber types like her. All sorts. She must have bloody handed out invites round town.'

Jon groaned inwardly. The investigation looked like it might run and run after all. 'How about the day before yesterday? It appears she'd had a few round that evening.'

'That wasn't too bad. They kept the music down. I heard the front door shut at around midnight. The ones she was in the band with.'

'You saw them leave?'

'No — heard them. Liam woke up wanting a bottle. His room overlooks the street.' Another hiss as she ran the iron over a tiny sweatshirt.

'How many voices did you hear?'

'Three, maybe four. More than two, anyway.'

'How about the next morning? Did you see or hear anyone leave her house?'

'No.'

'When I was here, you were just getting back from somewhere. What time had you gone out?'

'About nine. I needed a couple of things from the corner shop.'

'Pass anyone on the street you've not seen before?'

She gave the question a moment's consideration. 'No.'

'OK, thanks for your time.' He stood up. 'Oh, one last thing. Who was that leaving when I arrived just now?'

Her face became even more guarded. 'Why?' 'Just squaring off our records.'

'Liam's dad. He'd just popped round.'

'He doesn't live here?'

'Not with Liam up half the night he doesn't.'

Jon imagined the shrill cries of a baby cutting into his sleep in the early hours of the morning. As if on cue a bawling started upstairs.

'Shit!' She looked at the mound of unfinished ironing.

'Right, I'll be out of your hair then,' replied Jon, wanting to get away before she fetched the screaming baby. Once out of the door, he scooted round to his car, retrieved a flask from the boot and went over to the crime scene caravan now parked on the kerb outside Polly's side of the house.

Jon grimaced. 'I've seen more artistic shots in the Readers' Wives section of a bog mag.'

'Bog mag?' asked Nikki.

Jon let out a self-conscious cough. 'Well, that's where they get read a lot: in toilets.'

'You blokes,' said Nikki, half amused and half disapproving. 'This was at the back of the album.'

She held up another bag inside which was a page from a contacts magazine. Printed on cheap paper-stock, the page was divided into a load of boxes, the text and photo inside each one slightly blurred. Looking more closely, Jon saw adverts for amateur glamour models, charges ranging from £60 to £120 per private photo session. Turning to Polly's details in his notebook, he checked her mobile number against the ones in the adverts. He quickly found a match.

'So what do you reckon? Was she in debt? Trying to pay it off by doing this sort of stuff?' asked Nikki.

'More like saving up, I think,' answered Jon. 'She was planning to bugger off on a backpacking trip round the world for a year. Shall I take them back to the incident room?'

'So long as you sign for them.' Nikki held out her log book. 'And no stopping off in the bogs en route,' she added, with a quick glance at his crotch.

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or be embarrassed, but that was what he liked about Nikki: such foul things from such a sweet face.

Back at the incident room he handed in the evidence bags to the exhibits officer and sat down. 'Anything in yet?' he called over to the office manager.

The other man walked over, several pieces of paper in his hand. 'Nothing significant from the drains or the dustbins in the immediate area. Her bank records are due any time now and these are her mobile phone records — incoming and outgoing calls. Most caller numbers are registered, with the exception of three pay-as-you-go mobiles. Who they belong to is, as you know, anybody's guess.'

'Could belong to some very interesting characters,' remarked Jon.

Just before lunch the forensics lab in Chepstow called with the initial report on Polly's blood sample. 'What's showing up?' said Jon, grabbing a pen and hunching over his desk.

'It might be easier to approach this from the stance of what isn't,' replied the man at the other end of the line. 'Gas chromatography gave me a graph with enough peaks in it to put the Himalayas to shame. We've got all the usual suspects in there — cannabis, heroin, speed, alcohol and ecstasy.'

'In what sort of amounts? Enough to render her unconscious?'

'Could be. It depends on her tolerance. Was she a frequent user?'

'Seems like she was no stranger to it.'

'Well, I'd say the levels weren't enough to prove fatal. But I got an interesting blip on the graph, just above the background reading. It doesn't match any profile for the types of drugs we routinely test for, so I'll need to separate the ions in the mass spectrometer if you want to know what it is. The pH reading is acidic, so it could be some type of tricyclic antidepressant or something derived from ecstasy. Whatever it is, your run of the mill narcotic it is not. Want me to go ahead?'

Jon thought about the budget he had to play around with. Delaying a decision he said, 'How about the sample from her throat?'

'Haven't had a chance to look yet. It's set in the test tube, though.'

'How do you mean?'

'Become firmer, like jelly does in the fridge. 'There was a pause. 'Come to think of it, perhaps her residual body temperature was keeping it gel at the time of collection. Odd stuff, whatever it is.'

Jon came to a decision. The nude photos had given him a very promising line of enquiry. 'OK, hold off on the mass spectrometer test for the moment, cheers. And please-'

The man interrupted him. 'Call you as soon as I know anything more. Don't worry.'

The Outside Enquiry Team began to filter back after four. By half past the briefing area of the incident room was full as the process began of entering completed actions on to HOLMES and trawling over the day's findings. No residents on the street had noticed anyone unusual hanging around and no one had observed anyone leaving number fifteen that morning. The other two members of the band had been interviewed but, because they were both single, neither had any bed-partner to vouch for the fact they didn't return to Polly's flat later that night. The same applied to Phil Wainwright.

'Right,' Jon announced. 'We've had the toxicology report back. Like we thought, she was pumped full of all sorts, heroin and ecstasy included. The neighbour tells me that she would hold impromptu parties after the nightclubs had shut. She said that she used to see all sorts coming and going. I want to know where she was getting her drugs from. Someone go back to Phil Wainwright and lean on him. He's got priors for possession and he was obviously close to her.'

Next Jon retrieved the evidence bags from the exhibits room and showed them to the team. 'Any possible significance?' he asked the room in general.

'Could her ex — this Phil Wainwright — have found out and lost it?' someone asked.

'Possibly,' nodded Jon. 'Of course, she'll have had some pretty freaky people calling after she placed an ad in one of those magazines. And there are three unregistered numbers from her phone records.' He looked at his watch. 'People will be getting back from work soon. Let's get back over to Berrybridge Road and press on with the door to doors. We'll start working the contacts magazine angle tomorrow.'

At 8.15 Jon phoned home. 'Hi Al, it's me.'

'Hello to the SIO. How's it going?'

Jon sighed. 'Coming along, I think. There's some promising stuff to follow up so I'll be a while longer.'

He hated being trapped in the office for too many nights on the trot, not least because it forced him into eating grease-laden takeaway food.

'I've bunged a stew together. It's in the slow cooker. There's enough for a couple of nights…' She left the comment open-ended.

'That sounds great, but I'll have to save it for tomorrow. The team is phoning out for some pizza.'

'That's fine,' said Alice. 'It'll keep.'

With the issue of food sorted, Jon sat back. 'How was your day?' Alice gave a two-note hum. 'OK. Not too busy. Melvyn's “Backs, Cracks and Sacks” is going a storm. Word's out by the looks of it.'

'I'll try and put that image out of my mind.'

'Oh yeah, Ellie rang, 'Alice said. 'She wanted to know if we're on for going to Edale this Sunday. We could walk up to Kinder Scout and then head back down to the Nag's Head Inn for a late lunch.'

Jon remembered that his little sister had just been dumped by her boyfriend. 'How is she?'

'Putting on a brave face, I think. She's started to make an effort to get out of her flat more often, starting salsa lessons at Havana's in Manchester. I recommended that; you get some really fit men turning up.'

'Why not bring her down to the rugby club?'

'What, and have that crowd of grunts you play with crowding round her, pints of bitter drooling down their chins?'

Jon pictured the club after most matches: a couple of dozen blokes milling around on a beer-soaked floor, each one recounting his version of how the match had turned out. He loved it, but not many women seemed to. 'Yeah, you're right. But salsa? Won't it be full of sweaty Latino types?'

'Exactly,' said Alice. 'In fact, I might go along too.'

Jon smiled. 'That sounds like a good idea — Edale, I mean.'

'Good, 'Alice replied. 'I already said we'd go.'

'I'm briefing the team in at eight thirty tomorrow and not due to see McCloughlin until eleven thirty. We could meet in town just after nine. You're not doing the morning at the salon, are you?'

Alice sounded surprised. 'No, I'm due in after lunch.'

'How about it then?'

'Yeah, sounds lovely. Jon,' she said suddenly, 'have you spoken to Tom yet?'

'Oh shit, I meant to visit his office today. I totally forgot.' He glanced at his watch. 'I'll drive round on my way home. There's a guy there who usually works late at night. He should be able to fill me in.'

The traffic was almost nonexistent by the time he got away. Ten minutes later he hit the junction with Great Ancoats Street, then cut right into Ardwick. As he drove slowly along Ardwick Crescent the narrow strip of park was in darkness to his left. The glow of the petrol station across the road revealed the forms of two men as they lurked in the shadows beneath the trees. But unless they started mugging someone, he couldn't be bothered.

Instead he looked to his right, getting a glimpse through the open doors of The Church and seeing it packed with drinkers. Thursday night. In these parts the weekend kicked off tonight and kept going until Monday.

Getting to number seven he looked across the street, then climbed out of the car, confused. The office door was blocked up with a sheet of heavy-duty chipboard that had already been covered in a mishmash of graffiti. He walked over, eyes on the most legible line of writing.

There's nothing smart to dying, read the fat felt tip.

Below it a thinner scrawl replied, Piss off and do it then.

Looking between the bars in front of the windows, Jon could see a mound of post on the reception floor. He walked to the glass panels screening off the alleyway between the two houses: the pair of rubber plants stood tall and brittle, their leaves yellow and curled to parchment. Glancing up he saw the remains of an estate agent's sign hanging by a couple of nails, most of it torn off.

As Jon walked slowly back to his car, he thought back to the summer, analysing his last encounters with Tom, probing for any clues in what he'd said and how he'd appeared. There was no doubt he was sick of Manchester when he got back from the Seychelles.